Prophecia Dementia
by Starailor
Summary: It was like a sheen of rubies, the way her hair reflected the sun. His sun. Him, and him only. With her perfectly cream-colored skin and her dark maroon eyes in which shone an indiscernible secret, he knew at once that she was a treasure. A treasure only he should have. Him, and him only. Cassandra wasn't mad. Only perspicacious. The same could not be said of their love.
1. Prologue

It was cold. She felt cold. That, which they call "the lover's embrace" was not what had been felt at all. Despite her pleas, her struggling, her cursing, he'd shown no pity towards her. No guilt, no kindness, no sympathy. Only lust, and she had been dirtied. Dirtied, humiliated, brutalized, raped. And his hands—Ajax's hands—were hands that weren't human.

... No, they were human. Human in every way. After all, what else could be expected of humans than to hurt everything they touched? Of their own gain or another's. And his had been rough, hard, cruel, and blood-covered.

Blood. Cassandra stared down at herself. Through her blurry, spotted vision, she saw a naked body laying mangled upon torn clothes and debris. A few minutes ago, it had been a body which had belonged to her. Now it belonged to any man who dragged her out as his prize. His toy. His slave. His woman. No longer she would live as a human, but a tool for rutting. But anyways, it was a fine-chiseled figure of white, marred by red stains from Ajax's hands and bruises that were already forming. Focusing on the triangle that formed on the apex of her thighs, blood poured from the insides of her broken body. Lucky for her, she no longer felt any pain. No, she had already transcended pain a long time ago; she was too used to it now. Now, she was only cold.

Her scraped, bloody hands curled around a piece of broken brick. Something else had been in her hands before. What was it again..?

Oh, right. The statue. He had ripped the statue from her hands when he had set himself upon her. Cassandra's eyes wandered about, focusing in and out of vision. Where was it? Where had it landed? Her gaze landed upon the far corner of the temple, where the figure of a proud woman with wings lay—Athena. Except now, she was in 2. The statuette had broken in half on impact when Ajax had thrown it. It was on that side of the temple where all the ruckus had gone. Archean soldiers swooped into the temple like devouring locusts. They scoured the place for its offerings, and its women. The Priestesses of Trojan Athena were the most beautiful women in the realm. Any other suppliants for the goddess would have been considered blasphemy.

These men were of Ajax's platoon, no doubt, for they were doing just as their commander had done: slaughtering all the priests they could find and ravishing the women—while still inside the temple. Cassandra watched from her dark hidden corner—where Ajax had dumped her like filth as soon as he was finished with her—as the women were being raped viciously. For some of them, the unfortunates, more than one soldier was upon them. Their screams of pain echoed in the mad princess' ears. Behind them was a backdrop of flames. The entire city of Troy was on fire beneath a black, thunder-clad sky. Hellish crimson light painted the walls, making it seem like the figures etched there were drowned in even more blood. Flesh-covered walls, agonized rutting, slaughter, fire, blackness. Verily, it seemed like a vision from Tartarus, a nightmare. In other words, nothing Cassandra had not already seen.

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She hated them. Her father, who locked her away for so long because he believed her mad. Hecuba, who stayed silent and never took her side. Helenus, who promised he'd never leave her, yet did. Her brothers, who were boasting, lying heathens that mocked her. Her sisters, who were nothing but gossiping hens who shunned her the first chance they had. Paris, who ruined everything just so that he could have his own lusty ways, and had no shame in doing so. Helen of fucking Sparta, who was just as guilty as Paris, albeit having ulterior motives to her schemes. The Trojans and Greeks alike, she hated them all. Selfish, ungrateful, fickle, greedy liars; the lot of them. She wished for more power, not for more visions but the power to kill them. The soldiers and priestesses alike. She'd kill them. She'd kill them. She'd kill them.

She'd slaughter them with her own hands, nary a prayer to the gods for success. She of all people understood that her honey-coated words would never work. The gods were just as guilty as humans: selfish, ungrateful, fickle, greedy liars. And they would never show pity upon her, nor the people out there, despite their wrongdoings. And she, Cassandra, was merely a pretty tool in their schemes. She'd kill them just as soon as the the Greeks. She'd kill them. She'd kill them. She'd kill them.

And then she heard it: the sound of a woman weeping in her ear. The tears, just as angry as hers, just as sorrowful. She wanted to save these women just as much as she did, wanted to kill them too. Set fire not to just ungrateful Troy, whom she had sacrificed everything to, but to this entire world full of sin. But she also heard the pluck of the lyre, and her mind suddenly became bereft of the briefly comforting vision.

Not him. Don't let him come.

But he was here, she knew. He was here beside her, caressing her hurts with his golden fingertips, as if to cradle a broken toy to himself. His pale hair tickled her nose as he embraced her and he sang a sickly sweet lullaby in her ear. She raged within herself. She would kill him too. By whatever means, she would kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

And then she blacked out.

 **Man I feel like this one kind of sucked. And I know I should be working on my other story with Melantriche and Apollo, but oh well. I just wanted to write about something fucked up. Also I love Cassandra and I wanted to give some background on Apollo's character. Remind that I don't even know where this one is going or even how long it's gonna be but fuck it let's do it anyway.**


	2. Chapter 1

The light is blinding. It's a painful thing to be woken up to, to be sure, but whatever. She wouldn't stir from the bed until she felt like it, regardless of what he said. And besides, it wasn't as if she'd be allowed outside in the first place. The answer to that was simple; Apollo didn't need to explain himself to her.

"I don't want her to see you just yet," he said slyly as he leaned into her face, his eyes irritatingly coy. "She's completely bereaved at your death, you know. It will be a surprise."

"I never knew her." Cassandra said simply. "Not really. And I'm worthless. I don't see why she would be so upset."

"Because she was in love with you." He scoffed, spitefulness flashing across his eyes. "But Athena is the holier-than-thou type, so she thought herself heroic by admiring you from afar. She's a fool."

"You call the Goddess of Wisdom foolish."

"I can call her any way I please. She's my sister. But forget her, you're mine now."

Cassandra let her hands glide over the silken sheets of her new bed. She rolled onto her side and let their lovely patterns, their lush colors envelope her entire vision: the embroidered pink roses, sea blue tapestries, stripes of pasture green, and... red. Personally, Cassandra thought that was courteous of Athena, but still, she hated her, let alone returned her feelings. Once she had served her, and she paid her entire life dearly for it. Her sanity, her family, her friends, her pride, her virginity... all of those things, once precious to her, now scattered to the wind like the debris of Troy. Over-glorified things she no longer had need of, hardly loved, merely missed. And never once did Athena come to her rescue. Love? Pah. She spat at Athena's way of affection the same way she spat at Apollo's, and the rest of the gods with them.

The sound of the lyre roused her, as it always did. Not because she liked it, but rather hated. It was a wonderful tune, to be sure, but she was insane now, and hated him just as much as his damned music. It grated on her ears the way that her old attendant's scratchy, shrill voice did when she came to wake her. But just the same, it wasn't as if she had anywhere to go, for she would've just been kept in that same prison cell Priam had confined her to when he'd deemed her mad.

Priam.

Cassandra shot up from the mattress immediately. She would not think of him, any of them. If she did, she'd relive the visions, a little and little more of her would break away. She stood up. She hated the red on the pillows. She'd tell that to Apollo.

This temple was strange. The temples Cassandra knew were cold and empty, the only respite being the stone floor. The houses of gods, High Priest Chryses claimed, could not be inhabited by the secular. A stained altar, a statue with hollow eyes, a burning brazier, and screams of the sacrificed bouncing off the limestone walls. Apollo's temple could be called a palace, rather than a place of worship. This room was covered, from top to bottom, with fine rugs and vivid cushions. The walls were carved of marble and cypress wood, and covering them were thick tapestries depicting the deeds of Herakles. An enormous ivory hearth on the side wall sheltered a radiant fire that offered no smoke, only an unearthly warmth. There were elegant blue sofas with skeletons of gold in the middle of the chamber, surrounding a low table clad in rich offerings: laurels, sunstone jewelry, cinnamon incense, apples, oranges, honeycombs, goat cream, small cakes, and iced wine. The corners of the room were filled up with large vases full of orange blossoms and white lilies. The only one spared was the farthest corner, where there sat a golden harp on a layered stool, singing to herself softly and cheerfully as she snacked on a honeycomb pita.

Secular? Maybe.

More secular than the life of a Trojan princess, to be sure. But who can question the gods?

Cassandra walked leisurely down the courtyard hall. The weather was lovely today, just as it was any other day on Olympus. It never rained, never snowed unless the gods willed it so. Always, it was a bright and sunny day, where a slight cool breeze carried the scent of Olympian anemones. Birds sang, butterflies fluttered lazily about, and best of all, there were no mosquitoes. It was all perfect. Too perfect. Regardless, if Cassandra put aside the fact that she was now living in a world of petty ethereal, she could admit that it wasn't a terrible place to have a stroll. But she wasn't having a stroll, she was searching for her captor. Captor, master, owner, whatever he was, though he preferred to call himself a lover. A fool was what he was. A lustful, selfish, flamboyant, possessive, jealous fool. Now, as for the sound of the lyre...

His songs were always playing in the back of her mind, mocking her, but now that she was going towards it willingly, she couldn't really hear anything at all. Maybe, this was a new game to him. Find Apollo. Damn him. She'd kill him. She stopped walking, stood still, and listened. Only a slow, small beat, a wisp of plucking tunes she was able to pick up. Perhaps, it was like one of those hot and cold games she and Helenus used to play? The faster the tune, the closer he was? Cassandra clicked her teeth. Worth a shot.

10 minutes later, and she was lost down an enclosed hallway of cobbled stone. She was trapped in a maze, going down one way and then ending up in another in which she was all too familiar with, even though she was sure that she was entering a new area. She gave an angry scream and kicked over a pot of wisteria. The music had no sustenance anymore, it came rapidly then exited quietly like a wave at its leisure. He'd tricked her. She hated him so much, he was the bane of her existence, and now she was dancing to his hellish tune just like he wanted.

Blackish red cracks appeared in her vision and she breathed quickly. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Fuck the gods and fuck the world. The animals would be under the human's rule but one day they would evolve enough that a day would come when it would be the cow that slit the human's throat on the altar. The world would be uprooted and babes would babble the word of aliens. We'll shed piss instead of tears and men would wear dresses and spin wool and women would wear metal suits and kill each other and take their husbands and eat the flesh of the diseased and our skin and hair will fall off and we'll drink blood instead of wine and blue eyes and blond hair will be the norm and brown eyes and brown hair will be rare and the people who follow only one god will breathe poison and fester and die and be cast into the fire wailing and one god with 2 identities will sever the tie between Asia Minor and Europa and we'll live on the moon and grow weeds there and the earth will wither and die and

"You're going a little far."

Cassandra blinked the red out of her eyes and saw him. He declined on a sofa and strummed a lyre. They were no longer in the small enclosed hallway. Instead, they were standing on a patio out in the garden that overlooked an enormous blue lake. The vineyard leaves that hung above shielded them from the sun, even though the sun was already there in front of her.

"It's dangerous to look that far into the future. Soon you won't be able to differentiate between what's real and what's not."

Cassandra swayed on one foot, taking in everything around her. Where was she again? Who was that unearthly dashing man in front of her?

Apollo smiled and stood up. He brandished a damp linen out of nowhere and came forward to wipe her face clear of blood.

"Good morning, sweet. How did you sleep?"

"I don't like the red." Was all she could get out.

He chuckled. "Your hair is red."

"I hate my hair. I'll chop it all off. I'll scalp myself."

"You won't do that. I like your hair."

"I don't like you."

"I don't think so."

"I do."

"Mhmm. Shall I get rid of the red for you?"

"Yes please."


	3. Chapter 2

"Come now, Cassandra," Apollo crooned as he pressed the spoon to her lips, "At least eat some of this, hm?"

She shook her head at him. With new days came new challenges. Small, tedious challenges, but challenges nonetheless. Therefore, Cassandra grew into her mold of meeting challenges with her own. That was their new game.

"I won't eat," she replied in that soft, casual voice of hers, "I'm going to starve myself to death."

Apollo rolled his eyes, scoffing. "How original. She can't think of a way to commit suicide without her beloved lord husband noticing, so she chooses to shrivel into a skinny bag of bones. How many times have we all seen it?"

"Then maybe I should hold in my urine till I pop like a balloon."

"Haven't heard of that one." He raised a brow, a bit of laughter coming to his eyes. "A bit better. But I'd rather see another commit the atrocity. You, on the other hand, must eat."

"I don't want to eat." Cassandra insisted, deeply contradicting the sudden gurgle in her stomach. Nonetheless, it didn't reach her emotionally. Chuck it up to my sanity, she supposed. Apollo sighed, lowering the spoon back into the bowl. It was a lovely stew, really, full of beef, onions, potatoes, countryside greens, and a savory thick broth. A crust of soft pita with a bit of cream lay to the side of it. It was almost tempting, if only the sickly sweet smile on Apollo's face didn't make Cassandra want to retch. Honestly, it was like seeing a pig wearing makeup. He leaned in closer.

"Tell me, Cassandra. What would you like? Anything, you can name it."

"My freedom."

"Anything but that."

"Then nothing." Cassandra turned her head away towards the propped window. Another perfect day. A small lovebird rested on the sill, cleaning it's sleek, tiny feathers with complete and utter ease, knowing that on Mount Olympus there was nothing to fear. Nothing but Apollo, maybe, but he liked the birds because they sang along with his music. Like all else in this place, their little voices were superb. Even the shrillest tweet sounded like the echo of a silver flute. Too bad it was the perfection that made Cassandra want to die. Apollo blew an annoyed breath.

"You're truly an ungrateful one, you know that? Others have killed to for less than what you have now."

A pang of hurt sounded in Cassandra. She knew what he was referring to, but she wouldn't say so. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her even the slightest perturbed. Involuntarily she swallowed some saliva and blinked. Honestly, what was there to regret? Lament? She'd did her part, and everything crumbled regardless. Destiny has a way of kicking you in the gut whilst you're trying to get up, regardless of whether or not you can read the future. Once Cassandra had thought differently. She thought that if she could see the future, she could prevent the inevitability. War, famine, tragedy—all the things she'd known nothing of, but wanted to end anyways. A different girl had had that kind of mindset. But that girl had been killed. By this man, right in front of her.

No. Not man. She meant god. How could she have believed that they were guiltless? Immortal creatures, graceful and bountiful in knowledge in every way, ruling the earth they'd created with an utter sagacity beyond human comprehension. She had been a fool. There was no benevolence, no kindness, no wisdom here. Only masters of a cruel play, and we were the puppets. How could he dare say that he loved her? How?

"But people are stupid. That's why I want to die."

Apollo tutted. "Now, that kind of mindset is the kind that I can't abide. You shouldn't die knowing that you can make a change."

That riled her. Finally, a sheen of fire glittered in her lovely maroon eyes, now darkened with a quiet hate. "I tried to make a change and you punished me for it."

"You continue to twist my judgement, I see. There are laws in this universe that even you can't comprehend, Cassandra, and you test all of them. Don't you see how lucky you are? Not only are you forgiven, but here I am, a god at your beck and call, ready to grant you anything you desire," His eyes reflected her glitter into something sly, positively devious. "Even the end of the world."

Unwillingly, her ears perked. Apollo's sense of logic was certainly twisted. He spoke his mind without a care, wording himself so artfully that there was hardly any flaws in his statements, nor was there any shame in his own self. But gods also were forbidden to lie—his words, of course. But the end of the world? It was a concept that often appealed to Cassandra nowadays... greatly, to be truthful. The end to all suffering only came with no existing at all. Still, she couldn't see how Apollo could say such a thing so casually, when the world was his crown. Without the world there would be no sun, after all. Was this him saying he would die for her if he could? Now that was incredibly tempting, if not touching.

It was as if he had read her thoughts. Maybe he could, bring a god and all. He scoffed. "I forgot that you humans think the earth is the center of all. What a narcissistic idea. Be patient, little one. Perhaps one day, but not now."

"What are you even talking about?"

"Cassandra~," he smiled coyly, "don't play dumb with me now, love. I know what you want. Your true desires, and I'm telling you that I'm more than happy to grant them."

"... You mean the end of the world?"

"Yes," he purred softly, sweetly, cunningly, "wouldn't it be a wonderful sight? Not only to have everything beneath the sun at your feet, but to watch it burn. All of its impurities, gone. The murderers, the adulterers, the rapists, the crooks, the corrupt, gone. And they will know you, their victim, brought it upon them. A fitting bride gift, isn't it? Not to mention a fantastic story."

Poetic justice. Our favorite. But Apollo was right, it was a wonderful gift. Cassandra was no bride of his. Not truly, in her own set of mind. But his offers were sweet and tempting, like glazed baklava. And besides, wasn't this merely a game between them? To see who owned who, who controlled the other.

Cassandra slumped, her eyes thoughtful. "You want to bring an end to everything? You want to rebel against your father?"

He smirked. "This is something not even my father can prevent. There is a time and place for everything, and therefore it won't happen now. Not for some time, in fact. When the world reaches its prime, that's when it will happen; an apple ripening till the day it is eaten. That's the way of things, no? Which is why you should do as I say. Eat well and stay by my side, until the end of the world. Until then, we might as well enjoy ourselves."

Apollo had the upper hand over her, and it was positively degrading. Even so...

He leaned in close, so close that their nose almost touched.

"Tell me, Cassandra. What would you like? Anything, you can name it."

She stared out the window. Sunny skies, twittering birds, cool breezes. The smell of blossoms budding. Would all of that be ruined one day?

"I wish it would rain."

 **Still don't know where this story is gonna by btw so like, free to any your guy's ideas? Or something idfk. Still going on with it regardless.**


	4. Chapter 3

That golden harp was always so perfect. Her posture, her anatomy, even the way she moved—delicate, graceful, without a single flaw. Her face was carved from ivory, but a certain god had once breathed enough life into those glinting lips that it seemed that her cheeks took on a nearly rosy color. No doubt it was because her life was so blissful. Ah, to just do nothing but sit pretty in this peaceful clean chamber, Cassandra thought mockingly. Perhaps if she wanted, Cassandra could just walk straight up to her and pull her cheek. And for sure, that cold earthly material would bend to her will, masquerading as supple, youthful flesh.

She's been good, Cassandra believes. She's gone for daily strolls through the gardens, eaten everything she's been given, and when she speaks to her "beloved husband", her comments aren't so snippy anymore. She's even been doing the normal things a normal woman does to pass time: sewing, singing, dancing—you know, the works. Perhaps it even seems that her mental health is improving. But this is not the case. If only burying herself into normal activities would put her mind at ease, just as everyone she's met so far has assured her! Instead, it's all rather tedious to her, so instead it gives her time to think.

And she is no fool. She knows that the artificial qualities of this harp woman run more than skin-deep. She thinks that Cassandra doesn't notice, the way she bats her eyelids at her master when he enters the room. The way she squeals with delight when he strums her, the way the dimples on her face curve insidiously when she holds out a prune cake to the imprisoned girl, when she thinks that she has fooled her into believing that she is a friend. This is so Cassandra will tell her her secrets, hopefully the most dreadful ones, so that she will report it to her Lord Apollo. Perhaps it would stop the way he looked so passionately at her, and maybe Cassandra would like that too. But it doesn't work, and so both parties are left unsatisfied.

Right now, Cassandra lays flat on the bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling. She's wondering why she feels so angry right now, so much filled with rancor than usual that she wants to twist something's neck. And eventually, after an hour or so, an idea occurs. It makes her smirk. So the harp woman wanted drama. She'd get it, then.

Screaming. It feels like that's what she's the best at. She screams, she makes others scream, and then they scream curses back at her to ward her superstitions off. Some things just never change. She pulls it off effortlessly as a sport, ripping out her hair, running around the chamber on all fours, flipping over tables, chasing after the harp woman whilst screaming bloody murder. Except this is different, because this one cannot scream back. She sings. She is frightened, and so all she can do is run away and cry. A few times, she plucks up the courage to stop running and offer a sweet to Cassandra to soothe her into submission, like a slave nanny to a spoiled child.

Except, Cassandra feels ill. So terribly ill, maybe she'll throw up. And so she smacks it out of the harp's hand and vomits all over her. So much food she's been forced to eat! All of it too rich to hold down, even for the Trojan princess' high standards. Today's special was roasted bass stuffed with feta crumbles, pine nuts, and tomato. She cackles loudly at the harp's horrified expression and shoves her to the ground. She finds it funny how she slips in the chunky vile fluids over and over again. And then they play again. And again.

It's not too long before Apollo himself shows up, alerted by his faithful servant's cries. He bursts into the room with a gust of great power, and it causes Cassandra to tumble.

"Cassandra," his voice vibrates powerfully throughout every brick. She smiles almost coquettishly.

"My husband," she coos, taking a moment to spit out a chunk of half-digested bass. "My pretty, pretty husband. Have you come to visit your whores?"

"Stop, Cassandra," he booms, his eyes flashing hellfire. "Stop right now, and sit down."

But she laughs at him and starts throwing things off the furniture. The lapis lazuli vases, the bow racks, the tapestry racks she'd tended to for a month, and his offerings. His offerings.

The first wine jug to crack against the stone floor, and Cassandra is sent flying across the room, and onto the bed again. The sheer curtains curl around her limbs like snakes, and she is rendered helpless suddenly. Her laughter quickly turns to screams of terror because there's a memory in the back of her mind of when she was held down forcefully like this, of when she tried to close her legs but could not.

She heard someone crying and someone else soothing. Craning her head, she sees the 2 of them. And she wants to spit again. How can he want to hug her like that when she's covered in puke? And of course the girl will drag on her sobs as long as possible. Cassandra is disgusted, and certainly not jealous.

10 minutes later, when the sound of crying fades away, she waits and sees his face above her. It is gnarled with a concoction of ugly emotions: disappointment, disgust, sadness. It must be infectious, because those are the emotions that suddenly overrun her. She squirms.

"Don't you hug me too! Don't you dare!"

"Cassandra."

She wants to beat her puffy red face with her hands, except they are tightly restrained and she cannot stop his rosy lips from kissing hers, nor the honey-stewed breath that makes her succumb to peace and suddenly feel sleepy. When he pulls away he wipes the vomit from his mouth, and she suddenly bursts into tears.

"I hate you!" She screams and kicks, ugly words threatening to spill out of her like stuffed bass. It tastes bitter and makes her choke. "I wish you were dead, you hear me?! I wish I were dead! It's not fair!"

It wasn't fair. He could do anything he pleased. He could derive her of her sanity and her future, and take her love all the same, all whilst tying her up like an untamed dog. She screams until something in her throat suddenly pops, and the curtains loosen enough for her to throw a hand to her neck. A mere whistle comes out, nothing more. He's gazing at her with pity. It's not fair.

"See what you've done?" She whispers croakingly, like the whine of a bicycle horn. "See how you've gained everything, through just a wave of your hand. And see how I lost everything just as easily."


	5. Chapter 4

**Warning: Smuttiness ahead.**

She doesn't always hate him. The bitterness is always there, but sometimes, she pities him in a twisted way. Other times, though it's incredibly few in number, she's desperate like a beaten puppy. For compassion, for affection, for love. She is sure he doesn't love her. Not really. It's not possible, a god, a prince like him and an unhinged mortal girl like her, especially not after all that they've endured. But when she allows him to pretend, he pretends so well.

An occasion that she can recall was one rainy evening. The sun had not come out all day, for a thick canopy of dark clouds shielded it from seeing anything. At certain times, it poured in sheets of icy black rain. The rest, it drizzled hailing droplets on a backdrop of soft miserable blue haze. Earlier, Apollo himself insisted he had nothing to do with it, so Cassandra assumes that it must have been some other god, perhaps feeling as desolate as she.

It was on this day that instead of feeling angry like she always was, she'd been dropped. A heavy aura held her down in the bedsheets all day, oppressing her, abusing, subduing her into a deep and quiet depression. She felt drained and dizzy, and could do nothing else but watch the rain fall. With her anger gone, an emptiness filled her and made her teary-eyed as she reminisced over her dismal life. She asks herself why she woke up one day and everyone hated her, why no one loved her anymore, why everyone went and died and selfishly left her. And then she thinks of other less savory bits of the last days of her formal life and asks new questions, such as why people were so cruel, and if there was any respite in this universe for worthless people like her who everyone used and no one wanted, a place where they could rest untroubled and peacefully among their own. Perhaps, maybe there was, but it was not for her. Her life would be forever tied to this place, in this dark room, with chilly wind that smelled of rain and marble floors that made of ice. Completely alone, without anybody.

Knowing this, she curled into a ball beneath her covers, face in the pillows, and allowed herself to cry. She wanted to get warm, but it was so cold, and she cried even more. She would have welcomed the company of anything, even that stupid harp woman that used to prance around here. But after the incident, Apollo thought it best to send her away to a new destination after all. Cassandra pulled at her hair, squeezing tears out of her eyes. Why did she have to push everyone away?

The covers over her are pulled away suddenly, and Cassandra huddled into herself, shivering. It's too cold, she wants to complain. And Apollo is there, looming above her. He has already shed his clothes, naked in all his immaculate golden glory. His face is unreadable, but his eyes speak a certain level of tenderness. Cassandra's stomach churns readily.

"I want to be kissed." He complies to her without hesitation. An open-mouthed kiss, settling onto her lips like the delicate perfumed petals of a flower, gently and slowly. Moist and delightfully warm, too. It makes her open her mouth too.

His skin is ravished by summer. He is the sun itself, he radiates heat, along with all the good things to smell when you're running through a vast wilderness. Hyacinth is his favorite flower. Laurels carry a distinct scent, too. She wants to cringe but she can't. Instead, she accepts him and his body warmth, hooking her arms under his arms and tracing gently the perfect lines of his shoulder muscles. When his body is pressed against hers, she shivers because he feels strong. Webbed by a human form, there bursted unfathomable power inside of him, and yet he is gentle. She strokes him in encouragement and he loves it. Once, he'd promised her the world for a single kiss. Now his lips touched other places. The crest of a rosy nipple. The ladder of ribs carpeted by soft skin, white and smooth and cool like milk. The susceptible navel, a belly button—Cassandra's only tie to her mother since eternity. The scars on the wrists, openings into the soul, and the ones behind the knees and down the thighs too. He makes love to it all with his mouth like a prisoner savoring his last meal. If Cassandra were a food, she wonders what she would be. He can read her mind and he chuckles.

"You taste like ink." He teases, his nose resting in the bed of soft curls above her apex. His mouth is just below, right... there. When he forms words, she can feel the formation of them. It jolts her all the way to her spine, she squirms.

"Oh," is all she can whisper. It's all so exquisite, so new. She's never felt this kind of thing before. It feels... strange. She's dripping down there. He closes his eyes, takes a deep slow breath of it all.

"You smell so good, Cassandra. I want to devour your knowledge."

"P...please..."

He raised his eyes slyly, taking all of her in, and suddenly she feels ashamed. She ducks her head to the side, pillow against her cheek, trying not to look at him and his smoldering gaze. All of her is red: red tresses, red pubic hair, red faced—glittering like a magnificent ruby.

"What do you want, Cassandra?" He breathes, his husky voice vibrating against her. Unbeknownst to her, she's trying to trap him between her legs. It's a reflex. "I'll give you anything."

"I..." it's hard for her to concentrate when his lips are caressing her. "I want to be swallowed by you."

The bliss of hearing those words! He briefly swatted his tongue out as he rose. Oh god! She wants to scream. His hands are warm and intense and somewhat calloused from dozens of millennia at the bow and arrow. She feels this as he runs his hands over her breasts, her arms, her belly, her hips. When he tugs apart her legs—wide—she's all out there for display, but it's such an erotic feeling she can't afford to feel modestly. She feels like a lascivious painting, a piece of art that's as hot-blooded as Aphrodite herself. It's clear that he feels this too. An intense animosity spread thickly over his face, lust in its purest form dripping over his neck to his chest to his stomach all the way down to his loins, which is tipped upwards proudly. Cassandra flushes. He's a bountiful piece of flesh.

She's trying to catch him with her legs but he moves away, reaching under to caress her naked ass, teasing, kneading the soft fat between his fingers so that she became even more aroused. So aroused that her body raised its rear to him, offering itself like a sacrifice. His fondling intensifies and Cassandra whines. She has a desperate longing to be filled, not just with him but with real genuine love. It was aching so badly and stray tears start falling from her flushed face.

"Please," she begs, he groans.

"Tell me how much you want it."

"I want it a lot." She sobs. The sweet agony. It's torture, he's punishing me. "I want it a lot. Oh please, give it to me."

He's silent for a brief moment. Then Cassandra, her eyes squeezed shut, feels a serpent sliding against her, pulsing, as if with a mind of its own. He enters her, slowly, painlessly, but so very slowly as if he's trying not to hurt her. It's so slow that she starts pushing back with her own force, trying to catch the serpent that tempted her into knowing sin. And then suddenly, he enters her fully. Deeply. Cassandra shrieks.

Ajax the Ox was a tyrant. His movements had been vicious and hard—selfish. He'd ripped her apart beyond repair. But Apollo was not Ajax. Slowly, languidly, rolling his hips deep. It's such a gentle sensation, yet so powerful, Cassandra is weeping. They are breathless, heaving together like a hunk of gyrating flesh. The rhythm's unfathomable and it feels so good. Moans are dribbling out of Cassandra's wet mouth like a stream of babbles. This is what it's like to be fucked by a god. He hooks her legs over his shoulders like a savage and plows her deeply. She starts screaming. She sees things in his eyes that no other can. Only she, his prophet, his lover, his bride. Wolves howling in triumph over dead antelopes, sea form caressing red sand, mother and child walking together down a forest trail, snowflakes falling onto our noses like tiny dancers. A golden snake coiling around a boy's head as he draws his bow. It's all so surreal, so simplistic and yet she's seeing it in no way another mortal could. She can see all of this inside of him and it's glorious. She's climbing a mountain, made entirely of bliss, and he's an earthquake shaking around her. She's... she's running to the top, and she reaches the peak and—

"Oh, Gods!" She sobs, her voice quivering and she's pooling down there. She shakes around him—the rock beneath the earthquake till finally she lies still, twitching from his rapidly increasing movements.

"C-Cassandra," He growls, rutting senselessly like a dog. "I'm—," he hugs her tightly close, suffocating her as he keens quietly, reaching his climax. Cassandra, she lets out a weak cry as she feels the sows of his seed flowing inside her. For something so sacred, it's... warm. And sticky. Then he props himself onto his forearms and stares at her.

"I love you." He murmurs against her lips. She's so happy. She returns the kiss, and...

She doesn't remember what happened after that. Just the feeling of blissful fulfillment and being sleepy.

The next day she woke up alone.

And quietly furious.


	6. Babies (Stupid AU)

**Break from my main plot line and a non-edited AU that I made up at 3 in the morning for no reason whatsoever.**

The children, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 year olds.

They are the children of slaves.

They have no real father and their mothers hate them because say, one sees in her new son's eyes the same that glinted in the blackness as he broke her at 4 in the morning.

They're only children, babies.

Man sows his seed everywhere in his path because he is human, built of clay but he is also god because he has choice, so he won't bat an eyelid when your breast cracks like a bowl and suddenly there is a baby where his grain had taken root. He walks away and ignores your bawling, the baby's.

"T-t-they're only... ba-bies..."

She is so much better now and it's because she loves the babies. And Apollo is afraid because...

the Lesser, lesser of man but by man's standards a fine warrior with the strength of an ox, the child of a slave but he has king's blood in his eyes.

It is because of this that his seed was poison and he spoiled her womb. Cassandra lay on the birthing table convulsing and, Apollo. He loves her. He comes right away after the screaming and the pushing and the crying to see his new child and... there is none.

They discarded it because Cassandra is having seizures every time she sees the creature and they don't want their master to see because he's like a charcoal portrait. White and then black, suddenly he will be enraged and they'll turn into dust.

It's in his nature to be wrathful. The temperature is 89 degrees tonight but how is that when there was a cool breeze just now?

He is... how can he describe how he is feeling now? He is not made of clay but stone and gold lacquer. He... he loves his children, all and one, even if they have his eyes. He yells, demands answers but these useless servants only cowl around the tent weeping. Why are they weeping? It's not their baby, not their lover who is trying to claw her eyes out as we speak. They are hiding their faces behind their hands as of it is, though. They are made of clay so they don't want to see.

Where is my baby?

What did you do to my baby?

Someone speaks hoarsely, desperately sucking air through their teeth as if drowning.

"Skin... made of paper... glass bones. I'm going to d-die, help..."

It's Cassandra. He goes to her side. Where

is she? Where is the baby?

"I... I had him. I saw him."

"His f-ace was m-m-melting like wax... he saw me... and... then he ran away. He came out of me like concrete, t-thick and sp-sp-illing... I couldn't stop him, my bones are made of g-l-a-ss, he's gone..."

Finally the midwife tell him lowly, it was a son. A stillborn. His skull was missing, his skin runny and in patches. They wrapped the body in linen and stashed it away somewhere, Apollo can't remember.

The heat ravages him, so that he can't speak, can't even move his lacquered bones to slap the midwife, break someone's neck. His fist shakes.

Finally he says, quietly, in a low voice,

"You're all dismissed."

Cassandra always seems to know about things before they happen, Apollo's not sure why. She will never tell him about her life before he razed her city with one hand, killed her twin brother with the other. However, she can never do anything to avoid the inevitable.

If lacquered bones had visions, and visions could sing...

She dreams of the girls at night who are awake in that time. She is in their sandals, lucidly dreaming as they wander numbly through the war camp, dumping out shit and cleaning dead bodies. Then suddenly a random soldier comes out of nowhere and is rutting you from behind, slapping you, calling you a slut.

This one will have a daughter next year in Spring. She will have her father's hair, his crooked nose and his lips. But she will be none the wiser because she will have become her mother, a slave without a family. It's an endless cycle, an ugly sad one that leaves Cassandra shrieking and crying in the night. If only she weren't made of clay.

It's all very sad and Apollo does his best to comfort her because he loves her. He won't leave her behind. He'll take her with him when they return to Delphi and then, maybe, he'll marry her. But sometimes he wishes that he never learned what love is because it's all also very tedious, distressing. He's referring to Cassandra's mad quirks: the night terrors, the sullen silences, the outbursts and the stuttering. She drives him crazy but... he wouldn't ever raise his hand to her. He might punish her in other strange, passive-aggressive ways but he'd never beat her like a slave. He's not that sort of man. But no matter what he does it's always the same. She holds him in a certain disdain which will never go away.

Right now, Apollo sighs. He glances into the mirror. Is he getting gray hairs?

The flap to the tent is open. Fresh breeze wafts through but more importantly, Cassandra can see outside from the cot. Ever since the miscarriage she won't leave her bed. She has no energy, not even to eat the food they bring her, or to bathe. This distresses Apollo greatly, but whatever. He should suffer a little too, for all that he's done. She hides under the cover periodically, as if in a cocoon.

But now she can see them. The little children.

They come mostly around evening, because even then they are invisible and their mothers don't care if they come home. Little small children, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 years old who wander the pathways like packs of dogs, quietly lurking, searching for... what, Cassandra doesn't know. Still, something rouses her for the first time in weeks. She gets up from the cot, stumbles a lot outside. There's one, right over there. Little stubby boy with sandy hair, seems to be only 3. He's dressed in patches of ration sacks, so skinny. They catch gazes with each other, starving eyes to hollow ones.

There is, bread and garlic soup inside, which she hadn't eaten the hour prior. She beckons him inside.

"Come in and eat with me."

It has become routine now, she and them. Being the Prince's favorite toy has its own benefits, so she asks for more and more food. Nothing so special, just more bread and soup and the occasional fig. They love it and they love her, the little children. More and more of them come to her for love and protection and food, even the fathers have begun to take notice now.

When Cassandra holds their tiny sticky hands as they walk the pathways, she is not afraid and they are not either. The soldiers might give them dirty looks, occasionally one plucks the courage to approach Cassandra to sneer at her, but it has no effect. It's magic because Apollo is a feared warrior—the shining sun, they call him—so why would his lover need to fear these small men who won't acknowledge their own seed? It's as if his shield is over her, protecting her from being raped on the spot.

It goes from the point she's starting to milk her privileges. She's reserved a tent for them, a small one in the cluster of Apollo's inner camp where it's hardly used anyway, so why waste the space? They sleep there sometimes, and Cassandra will come to them in the heat of the afternoon and they will all play games together. It's all good fun, and amidst all the giggling and the tagging, Cassandra feels happy for the first time in a while. This must be what it's like to be a mother, a real one. At this moment they're laughing and without cares, just as children should be. How nice it is to be the one who gave them that?

It doesn't go unnoticed for long.

One night she and him, like any other night, lay naked and glistening with sweat in the low simmer of midnight. Covers thrown off, his arms wrap around her. Even though she's shaking like she usually does, it's not so bad, being like this. She'd like to just forget the evils of their relationship and pretend that this is something else. She never had a twin.

Just when she's about to drift off,

"What is this I hear, about you and some camp children?"

She shrugs it off. "I like them."

He sighs. "Don't do this."

"Don't do what?"

"I know what you're doing and it's not helping. Cassandra, you had a mistake this time but, next time, it will be better. We'll have more children, healthy ones and I'll take good care of them."

"No, we won't. I can't ever have any more children."

"Don't say that. You don't know that."

"My son is in hell!"

"Cassandra!"

"Leave me alone. You don't understand, won't ever understand. You kill babies..."

His brow furrowed. He might smack her this time. "They're not your children."

"I love them. They're mine."

"You're being ridiculous. What are you going to do when the war is over? They'll be distributed as war bounty and they'll go away from you and what will you do then?"

"No! I want them! They're mine!"

"That's not how it works."

"But you love me... you can make it happen."

"Stop it. It's not that simple, Cassandra."

"But... I... I would do anything for you. I'd be good for you... and..." her eyes were watering. "what are children worth to them anyways? What's it to you that a few can't fit into your bounty?"

"Cassandra..."

"Please. They're just babies. I wouldn't ask for anything ever again..."

His face closes and he sighs, exasperated. For a long time, he is quiet and Cassandra thinks he's decided to just go to sleep and ignore her till he mutters,

"You're happy with them. You'll have to be a good woman and do everything I say."

She hugs him.

"Don't expect much out of me."

Well, something good did come out of bartering the children, didn't it? After all, she didn't have many night terrors after that.

 **I guess it's a sort of AU in which Apollo is human? And Cassandra has baby? Except she turns out infertile? I'm a sucker for poetic angst _(ツ)/. None y'all can stop me.**


	7. Chapter 5

"You're inside too much."

She strokes the sleek fiber of wood beneath her fingertips. It's dark and ruddy and shiny, a strange kind that she's never seen before, maybe from a divine tree of some sort. It's... inordinate. She glances up at him. It's daresay attractive when he's peeved. Perhaps it is a flicker of her own imagination, but that flaxen gold hair of his seems to alight. It glimmers a red tint like fire, but what does he expect from her? He thinks he's the only one who can't tell who's thinking what. She raises an eyebrow.

"Wonder why that is? I thought you were trying to be discreet about me."

"This is my palace. No one's here, just you and me." He leans forward, props his hands on both arms of the chair, like he's trapping her. His breath smells like butter. "I—,"

For some reason the strange thought occurs to Cassandra that if Apollo were just an ordinary man—and put him in her own shoes—she'd have his tongue cut out so that he couldn't babble, and then just keep the rest of him. She could work just fine without tongue, she muses to herself as she leans against his lips. He could just borrow hers, and anyways, it's the lips that are the most fragrant.

She gets the desired reaction: he's been plumb halted midway through his sentence by the sudden kiss and—he has no restraint, does he?—once he's grasped the situation, pried apart her own mouth with that retched tongue of his. She jerks away just as soon as he's had a taste.

It's... a bit fun to be unpredictable. Cassandra can't complain. When it all comes down to rock bottom, she can be the one controlling him if she plays her cards right. It's fun. Of course, he's a god so he's probably planted that notion inside her little insane human head to keep her satisfied...

He holds her by both sides of her head, foreheads together. He breathes heavily the scent of her lips.

"I heard that," he murmurs.

She blinks. "About you brainwashing me?"

"I meant about you making me your mute slave. You're incorrigible. Abhorrent. Like Nero. Really, you are. And brainwashing?"

"Who's that?"

"Hm?"

"Nero. Who's that?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Some emperor or dictator or other you'll never meet. Diabolical fellow, can't remember the details."

"What's a dictator?"

He kisses her again. "A master and his slave, only his slave is a country."

"Then I'm no dictator."

"But you have the characteristics of one." He licks at his lips as if aching for more kisses. "I know the sorts of things that go through your head. That's what the future calls 'cruel and unusual punishment'. Remind me why I like it so much."

Cassandra leans away in her chair, out of mouth's reach. "I don't know, you're the only real cruel one here. And what do you want from me? I don't want to see your quintessential gardens or anywhere else for that matter. It's boring to look at, how can you stand it?"

He shrugs. "Why do you think we deign to enjoy the hospitality of ugly humans?" He goes quiet for a second. "Is that it? You'd like to go back there?"

Back where? To the human world? Cassandra thinks about it. The human world, vast and crude and ugly and beauty is rare, but it's free. Full of all varieties of creatures and exciting things. It would be nice to feel a sudden blow of hot wind, feel herself sweat again. To feel real dirt beneath her feet, itchy grass, knobby rocks scraping against her soles. It's not ideal, but it's so different from what she's been living on all this time. Apollo is a god. He could take her anywhere—how nice would that be? A few times she wondered what it was like for Hector and Helenus and Paris—May he rest in Tartarus—when they were traveling to Sparta. But it's just not...

She shifts around in her chair, slips out from beneath his arm. The tiles are the texture of glass against her pads as she starts to the window. Sunny again. But it's not at all hot. Again. She rests her forearms against the stone sill, fingertips rubbing, trying to friction off some rubble.

"I don't know." She says with a bit of thought. "I would but I think I'm scared."

"It's been a while."

She feels cautious, and her voice shows it. "How long?"

"A year." His voice, also cautious. She moans and rubs her lids. Really, so long? It felt very long, maybe several months, but... an entire year? An entire year!

"You've been keeping me prisoner... all this time." She is quiet. She is reminded of how small she is, like the forgotten lost button at the bottom of a trunk. Or a little wax action figure that boys hide in treasure troves under a tree. More than half of her life she has been this lost button, this wax figurine. 10 years in Troy as a child, in a dark iron room coated in a layer of dust. The first time it was 4 months before she was let out again and she made not a good impression on her fellow kin when it happened. She wobbled as she walked, she cried when the harsh light touched her face. All she could do was curl into a ball and babble indecipherably to herself. After 121 days, that's all she knew how to. She had become a baby again, except the womb had been cold and black and unbending and full of nightly terrors. The wardress... Bryony, dragged her out by an arm even though Cassandra begged her not to. It was all the same. How can the midwife understand the baby as it cries? That was just how it was then.

Cassandra was 8 then.

It is 11 years up to date now. She is 18... maybe 19 if she can't work out yet the specifics of what more than a year. Is she still a baby? Do her legs still wobble?

The embrace from behind startles her.

"Forgive me."

There's no real feeling behind those words, but she guesses she can't blame him in a sense, a god feeling any sort of remorse for a mortal. That would be like... a person feeling pitying little ants. But it's a miracle that he ever actually apologized at all. She heard those words correctly? She can't be sure. She's baffled. She traces his fingertips with her own.

"Why are you asking me now?" She muttered flatly.

"We're way past that point."

"You won't know unless you try. So don't be scared. I'll be with you."

His nose digs softly against her neck bone, the subtly sweet smell of lilies wafting from his hair. It turns Cassandra's nose sour but her belly churns. Damn him, he knows what he's doing. Her mind wanders somewhere far, far away. The white-stone walls, the grit sparkling against the sunlight that hit the city of Troy just right. A thousand little white houses, like frosted wedding cakes, building and overlapping against each other. The sweet salty air of the sea gliding on the wind into her small window. The chatter in the market. She and Polyxena—only small girls back then— running around in the flowery courtyard, shrieking and giggling when Hellenus played tag with them. So many fond memories, turned to ash in her mouth.

The last time she left Troy, it was razed to the ground, the air no longer smelling of the sea but distended with smoke and the smell of coppery blood. After her ordeal in the temple, the rest of it was a blur. There were days, months at sea which she had never been subjected to and she's sure that many times she became sick. The only clear memory was of an occasion on which she was allowed on deck. The first chance she got, she sprinted off the ship and dove into the water, absolutely sure that she could stand just about anything else than Agamemnon, the ugly old man with a bulbous beer-belly, a scraggly beard and a vicious smile—vicious hands. And even after that, her memories are hazy. Somehow she ended back on the ship again, only that this time she was wet, cold, and wrangled into a cage.

The thought of happening upon Troy again left a tightly condensed ball of sickness rolling around in Cassandra's stomach. Somehow she still, even now, believed it was burning. But there was a small, perverse excitement there too. The years had wasted her, driving her mad with the thought of her city depending solely on her shoulders. But the rest of them had no mind for her and her antics. They called her boggle-minded ninny, a witch, mad-eyed loony... and gods know what else. It was only when Ajax laid his hands on her that she realized that no, this wasn't her fault. Nothing had been her fault. Hadn't she tried, to the best of her ability to prevent such bloodshed? Taken knives and slaps and taunts and, with a torch in hand, to save all the ungrateful little fuckers? And yet nothing was enough.

Nothing had ever been enough.

The tension in her shoulders eased.

"I'm not scared. I will go with you."

She could feel his lips form into a satisfied smile. Shame of submission punched her heart, but screw Apollo. No matter what, she'd never submit to him, never in her own heart. This was solely for her own gain, she had no fear of him. Not anymore. She'd survived his curses and his torments for more than 10 years. There was nothing left to be afraid of.


	8. Chapter 6

Her eyes are clenched tight when a wind hits her, rippling through her clothes and whipping her hair into a frenzy. There's a wild smell here. Smells like dirt and rain and gravel and all the nice things Cassandra had nearly forgotten. That kind of smell in which the mind truly goes mad without. Apollo's gardens don't smell like this.

She blinks. There's grass poking between her toes. It feels tingly and cool. It may have rained recently. The dirt is soft and cold and easy pliable. It's a small flat valley, a view of the ocean far off between the V. Cassandra stares down. A herd of sheep are grazing at the bottom of the valley. There's a little stream snaking down there where a cluster of them are gathered around, drinking. Apollo gives her hand a light squeeze. "Look at that." He says lightly, whistling. "Looks like it's mating season already." He has no time to grasp her before she jerks from him.

She goes flying down the hill like a banshee. For a wild moment, Apollo thinks she's taking the first opportunity to escape him. Then he remembers she's almost as smart as he is. She's laughing a strange laugh, strange because it's one he hasn't heard for a very... very long time. Her hair glitters in this sort of light like a freshly minted coin. Her legs stretch and retract in the way an exotic animal may. At the last second her foot slips against the moist earth and she falls flat on her face. The remaining length of the hill she rolls down. She laughs even harder now, undeterred, even though when she stands up again her clothes are caked in grass stains. That's a lovely smell, too. She hasn't seen sheep in a long time. As children, she and Helenus were free to frolic in the countryside. With multiple siblings, they played hide-and-seek there, a game that Cassandra was really quite good at because her sisters hated the smell of the sheep she usually hid under.

She approaches a few, who aren't as startled by her sudden presence and pats them timidly. Their wool has yet to be shorn. By the sudden attention, more sheep come flocking to her until she's been cornered by them. From all sides they nuzzle at her legs. She laughs blissfully.

"Ah my goodness, what's all this here hassle?" A man is coming up the stream, swinging his walking stick. He's old, with gnarled brown hands that looked like they could pitch barrels. "Some rowdy young'uns looking to steal my flock?" He calls out. Apollo's striding down the hill. Cassandra squints. His clothes have changed in the sun—very simple looking now, with a goatskin tied around his waist. He flashes a charming smile at the man, one that hurts her eyes. "No thieves, sir. Just a couple searching for work." The man's taken aback, staring with frail eyes between the man and the woman in front of him.

"I don't need no help done that I can't already do." He says slowly. Apollo shrugs.

"We don't charge much. Just a obol per hour." She points a suspicious glare at him. Labor for such a ridiculously cheap price didn't fit the noble Apollo, but the man gets a strange dreamy look on his face. More trickery.

"Oh, alright." He speaks as if giving into a child's begging. He tosses his stick to Apollo, without hardly any suspicion and Apollo gives that beam again in appreciation. Cassandra rolls her eyes. He hefts it lightly from hand to hand, as if to test the weight of the thing before he nods in approval.

"A good stick, old man." The latter nods. "What needs doing first?"

"Well..." the old man scratches his head. "This is a good spot for them to graze for the day. Put the rams and the ewes together, since they're in heat. But don't put the spotted ones there. Put those ones in their own group."

"They need their wool shorn." Cassandra inserts. "Got any shears?"

"Got some, but I left them at home. My sons are too ill to shave them. It's just over the side of the hill. Think you can go get 'em?" She glances at the ridge of the valley. It's pretty smooth, easy for the sheep to mill around.

"I can do it."

"Tell me wife to fetch the purse, too." The old man pauses, makes a cursory glance at Apollo. "An obol per hour, you said? Then should be fine." Cassandra nods and goes off, not trying to analyze the dubious expression on her husband's face.

It's a nice cool day. Wind ripples like silk through the trees. Not exactly sunny, but not cloudy either. There's a dug-in dirt path through the field, a shack a little ways ahead. Mud squishes between Cassandra's toes as she sprints down the road. It's a glorious feeling of liberation, like a weight she never realized has been lifted from her chest. Finally, a time in which she doesn't have an irritating blond breathing over her shoulder. How long had it been since she was allowed to stretch her legs like this? She can't recall, can't care to anyways. At the entrance yard of the house, she digs her heels into the slick dirt, screeching to a halt and nearly falling again. Everything feels quiet. It's like no one's living in this side of the country at all. She can feel the beat of blood pumping in her ears. She could get away now, if she liked. Her heart beat so wildly that it felt like it didn't matter even if Apollo caught her, and, she felt sure he would. The places where the sun's light didn't reach, she'd never want to set foot ever again. But oh, she wants to run. Not from anything or to anywhere, just to chase that sun everyday without shackles.

That thought makes her blood go cold.

For a long minute, she stands there as of the mud has cemented her feet to the ground. The breeze feels suddenly cold, the rustle through the grass unsettling. Her feet slug grudgingly towards the shack.

The sheep move to Apollo's will. Raising livestock is no hardship to him. As if by magic, they plod to the designated places, the spotted sheep and the pure ones separate on either side of the stream. Nothing runs away, no one makes a fuss. They amble as docile as babies—sleepy, even. Any nearby wolves will have to find supper elsewhere. Meanwhile, the old man rests on a nearby rock. The sight of the herd now gone compliant doesn't escape him. "Well, I'll be!" He hisses. "They usually cause a bit more trouble for this old man." Apollo shrugs nonchalantly.

"This sort of weather can have a lot of effect on an animal." He seats himself on the bank of the stream, sighing deeply. This coolness, this peace. It's days like this that Hermes likes to stir up mischief. His eyes glean over the whole of the valley. A place near Thebes. A sweet oniony smell wafts through the air. Apollo leans his head back, breathing deeply. Wasted time though it may be, he's in a particularly good mood. As though on cue, beams of sun slip through the clouds, dappling patches of the valley in a way that makes it seem they're apart of a bank in shallow water. Up ahead, a bit of light ignites a hair of red like a candle flame. It's Cassandra trudging down the hill with a pair of large scissors in her hand, looking as if someone spat on her head. He smothers a smug grin.

Cassandra has never shaved an animal before. She's seen plenty of people do it, but the only real experience she has with an animal is slitting their necks. The old man sits up from his perch when he catches eye of her. "Didja get the money from her?"

"She said she'd come by later with it." Cassandra replies, her voice clipped.

"She doesn't trust you with it." Apollo chuckles. "You sure do have the look of a fox, don't you? If I never knew you I'd look the other way for sure." She shoots a glare at him.

"No you wouldn't." She says icily. "Because if you did, I wouldn't be here now." He shrugs, but she's already ignoring him. She'll do the spotted ones first, to experiment with the shears. Besides, it's only wool. She'll have the hang of it in no time for sure. With that in mind to boost her confidence, she hops over the brook. She strides towards the nearest ewe with the shears snapping rustily in her hands. Abruptly, the animal pricks it's ears and... it runs off. She follows after it, then it leaps across the stream, baaing indignantly. Blowing a heavy breath out, she turns to another one and grabs it. It jolts and turns around, bites her finger. "Agh!" She screams, reeling back and shaking her hand. She whirls around. Apollo's still sitting there, splayed over his rock, his eyes alight with silent laughter. Rage boils hot in her belly as she pictures herself grabbing that walking stick and whacking his stupid face with it. She's not sure if it's him who's manipulating the flock or what else, but she doesn't want to give him that satisfaction. She sucks in, and slowly on her tiptoes, creeps to a sheep. "Be calm, love," She croons as she touches it softly. The skittish eyes tip her off, but otherwise the creature remains still. She wields her shears quick, cuts off a quick hasty chunk of the fleece before the thing can take off. She hears him laughing behind her. She glares daggers. He's shaking his head to himself. "What?" She snaps, standing up. "Maybe it would nicer if you actually helped." Apollo stands up, something so simple an act Cassandra never knew could look so condescending. He saunters over.

"You'll never get anything done in the way you're going." He takes the shears from her. "Take smaller pieces off, but work quick. It's just as when you cutting one's hair. You don't want to nick anything, do you?" She feels heat come up on her face. The way he was talking to her! As if she were but a child. She gives an over-exaggerated slow nod. "Okayyy." She says in a dumb voice, rolling her eyes. He snorts, hands her back the shears. Kneeling back down, she grips the sheep's leg firmly, and starts snipping. Clip it delicately, she repeats in her mind, like snowflakes. It comes out more like clumsy silt-balls, but it's a start. 1 sheep done, then 2, then 3, and so on. The entire time he observes over her shoulder, proud glimmer in his eyes and all.

Several hours later, Cassandra wipes the sweat pouring down her forehead, her breasts. Swarthy bags of wool pile around her, bulging like stale marshmallows. She's finished. And only what, 5 obols to show for her troubles?

Well... it's not so bad. It was her who initially wanted something to do. This was infinitely better than sitting around in a bedroom chamber, with nothing to do but sew some pillows or whatnot. And anyways, she still feels accomplished, since she didn't need so many pointers from Apollo. Just now the old man marveled at how efficient she was at her task. Not bad for a coddled princess. She just didn't realize it would be this strenuous. Or... smelly.

As she ties the ends of the bags, she catches sight of someone coming over the hill, the wife. She has a sack in one hand, something clasped in her other. Against the afternoon sun, her small eyes squint at the scene below. Pique settles like a pack of marbles in Cassandra's belly. It's not that she's an easily angered person—surely... not—but the cold treatment of the woman initially left Cassandra in a teeth-grinding mood.

She came into the quiet house, lingering at the doorway whilst looking in. A neat looking place, quiet as a mouse. "Hello," she called out. No on answered. Carefully, quietly, she stepped inside. This was the main room, then there was a small cut-in the right wall. A small shuffling came from there. Cassandra peeked in. There were 2 cots full of boys, red-faced and sick. There was sudden shuffling behind her and a gasp.

"What are you doing in my house?" The woman hissed. Cassandra whirled around. She was in the doorway, a bundle of sticks under her cloak as she stared accusingly at her.

"Your husband sent me." Cassandra blurted. "He hired us to work the flocks." The woman scowled deeply.

"He don't need no help tending the flocks."

"We work very cheap. An obol per hour." She had a glaring eye as she scanned Cassandra from head to toe.

"Clearly." A blush of humiliated rage crept up Cassandra's neck.

That was several hours ago. It seems now that she's come with the pay as she promised. The woman comes skidding down the hill, and her husband stands up, back crackling slightly.

"Plione, you got my money?"

"Why else would I be comin' down?" The woman—Plione—scoffs. Cassandra meets eyes with her and immediately finds distaste. She lifts her chin. Stupid peasant crone. She's no prize herself. It's only just then that Apollo comes back with the rest of the flock. They went for a time around the river, Cassandra guesses. But the work's been done, so he comes striding up beside her.

"So that's been what, about 7 hours worth?" He quickly calculates while keeping his upbeat manner. Immediately Plione's thin mouth drops open. Cassandra resists the urge to cackle. Yes, this is my husband, and I've got him and you don't. That's the childish thought that comes to her mind. Which quickly goes away, seeing the stupid old hag's face break into an enthusiastic smile.

"Why yes, I-I do believe so, sir!" She exclaims. There's no mistaking the sudden rush of pink that flows onto her ugly pinched face. "But, why, that's so cheap. You poor young fellows, working at such a low price—why, that's just criminal." She makes eyes at her husband. "Why'd you pay so little. Are we poor or somethin'?"

"They're the ones who come up with the price. I'm just payin'."

"Payin'? Payin' what? A single obol, that's barely enough to buy stale bread. A bloody cheapskate's what you are." That man waves her away, scowling. Apollo gives an appeasing look.

"Quite alright, Ma'm. This is more than enough for us."

"Oh, but I just can't accept it. Wouldn't feel right if I did. How about you's two come up the hill for some supper with us?"

"No. We wouldn't want to impose on you." Cassandra says.

"Oh, pishposh. It's no trouble, dearies. Really, I insist. It's the least we can do, right, Oberon?" Cassandra could die of the sugar content in her voice. Her husband is sitting on his rock, counting coins in the bag. He glances up a little dazed.

"Eh, yeah."

"Sounds good with me." Apollo says. Cassandra wants to scream. Him and that Plione, they're giving each other eyes. The damn cunt! Can't he see it? No, he must. It's so clear what she wants, and him being the way he is, wants to eat with them anyways. What joy passes the woman's face as he says that. Better scoop out her eyeballs before the night's up. Or something.

Apollo halts. Everyone's already going, only Cassandra doesn't budge from her place on the river bank. He looks at her, the sound of Plione's jabbering already getting softer and softer. He doesn't expect any deeper a frown, any more of an obstinacy. Spoiled woman. "What's the matter? Swallowed some wool?" He touches her arm and he slaps him away, very hard.

"Swindler! Murderer!" She hisses like a snake. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands." And then she runs off.


	9. Chapter 7

She went all on her own, swaggering carelessly down the rocky road. The sky had gone mostly dark, the peach sun going very close under the mountains. Mosquitoes flocked her, taking experimental bites at her arms for how long it would take her to swat them, which made her even more angry. That too, was something she couldn't pinpoint. After all, she knew it was coming. Hades, it was probably happening already, right under her nose while she was tucked away in a fabulous castle. After all, where did Apollo go all that time? Wives were for only breeding. And it's not like she cared anyways. He could chase all the old lady skirts that he wanted. But that was a preference of his? Cassandra tried to think of the woman's face, tried very hard because it was distorted in her mind's eye by a filter of hell red. She was so ugly. Cassandra couldn't understand it. Men, divine or no, had no real sense of palate after all. She didn't care. Couldn't.

But she was upset anyways. So upset she wanted to cry and stomp like a child. It wasn't fair.

The breeze went from cool to chilling. It swooped into her clothes, prickling her skin. The roar of the wind beat against her ears, chasing away the minimal pleasantness of what she had accumulated during the day. Absentmindedly, she kicked aside a piece of tumbleweed as she hugged her clothes to herself. She was only about to resign herself to the plan that she'd prefer this than to slink back to that man, when he came walking up the other way. Oh, swell. She pivoted coolly on her heels and started walking the way she came. She wouldn't put up with him, plain and simple. Even if she wanted to pummel him in the face and complain that she didn't like it, that's not what she was going to do. It was the same as claiming defeat, and she was better than that. But when he grabbed her shoulder, she had to work hard to ignore the impassive look on his face, or the crimson glint on his hair even though the sun was long gone.

"You're upset, again." Simple fact. Except that for her it wasn't. Like before, she didn't care. As if he could see so thoroughly through her.

"I'm not. And anyways, what's it to you?"

"Oh, I don't know. I brought you here, let you wallow around in sheep poo to please you. But here you are, throwing a tantrum like you always do."

"Then go try to please Plione."

"See? You are mad." His face split into an ugly smug grin. "You're jealous." She wanted to strike him.

"I'm a lot of things, but I'm not jealous." She said coolly. Her hair swished as she turned up her nose, twitching in steel-cold pride. "Go on. She can have you." He snarled in a way Cassandra hadn't heard except in her father's voice, when he claimed he was at the end of his rope with his useless daughter.

"You're a wasp. You really think I'd have any interest in someone like her? All I did was look at her."

"Well, then don't look at her! She's an eyesore anyways!"

"You are surely a jealous woman." She wasn't a jealous woman, though. Isn't that the way Helen—May the swan-necked bitch burn in Tartarus—felt when she watched her husband chasing the skirts of other girls, even though it was easy to admit—even for Cassandra—that they all paled in comparison to her. Men were fools. Cassandra wouldn't like to be made a laughingstock in that way either! It didn't mean she liked him in that way. She only felt the necessity in marriage—the lust, the pride, the possession. Love, she now felt, was only a mushy fiction dreamt up by little girls to cope with the inevitable day they were given away by their fathers. Maybe, if anything, she would have liked a husband like that was very serious, and not one that fooled around in any way. Like Helenus, instead of Apollo who was already smiling because he already considered the argument won. He put his hands up in supplication, laughter dancing on his face. "I didn't come to fight. I have another present for you."

"What is it?" She paused, wary. "I don't really care, just so you know."

"Of course you don't. Come with me." Her hand stiffened when he took it, but she let him lead her down the hill, only to see what this gift of his was. She tried thinking up something in the past he'd dreamt up for her, like sonnets or exotic plants that could be burned for aphrodisiac purposes or storybooks he'd brought from far away. The path felt conveniently softer in the one he tread, into a patch of wood where in the corner of Cassandra's eye, she surely saw something flicker.

Then they came upon a small glade, a perfect circle broken into a flat clearing blanketed in a thick layer of soft, cool grass, white prairie flowers dotting. A little tent was pitched in the center of all of it, but what caught Cassandra's attention more was the little flares of light that flickered in midair. At first they might have been stars, but they were too close, and they were moving. A few came close, and Cassandra could make out the figure of strange little creatures. Bugs.

"What's that?" Apollo laughed.

"You like them?"

"What are they?"

"Fireflies. Father likes 'lightning bugs' better." The strange creature came flying over towards her face. When it briefly touched upon her nose, she wiped it away, giving a startled laugh.

"It tickles." She glanced over at the god to find him smiling a strange smile down at her. She stopped laughing, suddenly she felt self-conscious for reasons she couldn't decipher at that time. "How—how do they glow like that?"

"Bioluminescence. There's a kind of special blood in their bellies that catches fire when the air touches. This is how they talk to each other." Cassandra stared hard at the dome of trees surrounding them, how it looked like the stars were descending. She chewed a hangnail.

"Is it a kind of asteriai?"

"No, Cassie, it's not." He threatened to laugh. She pursed her lips at him. She pointed at the tent.

"What's that supposed to be?"

"I'll show you now. Come on." She hesitated, but it would happen anyways, so what was there to resist? And anyways, she was curious to know what could be more shocking than all this. It was a plain white tent, the kind a middle class would pitch in their courtyards during the summer. There were fine nets hanging around, the standard rugs and cushions, then there was a tall earthenware pot stuck right in the middle of the tent. Personally, she had been hoping it would be something she could eat. Something cold and sweet, like chilled baklava drizzled in honey, or sliced melon. When he was busy tying the tent flap closed, she poked the glazed surface of it, disappointed that it came away perfectly lukewarm. Apollo came sitting opposite of her, looking smug. She was careful to give him a totally impassive face back.

"What's in the pot?"

"Can you guess?" She didn't care to, so she shook her head and he shrugged. "Nothing too special, just that I thought you'd like to see them this way." He positioned his hands on the lid. "Get ready to look now!" A breathless ooh escaped her mouth. There were so many of them, in only one place. They came spilling out like little particles of magical dust. She'd never been the kind of girl that was afraid of bugs. It was more snakes that she didn't like, or rats. She was leaning in so close that they peppered her face, her hair, her arms, her breasts. It tickled very much. She stared as they floated to the top of the tent ceiling, creating something of a makeshift night sky. "You don't have to worry. They're a harmless bunch of insects, really. They don't bite." Something strange happened then. She didn't care just what he said, they did do harm. For all that, she absolutely could shake away his gaze, even though she wanted to. Gold glinted against bioluminescence—that's what he called it—making it seem more like sea glass than blond. His eyes glittered clearer than anything, were more blue than she thought they could be. The depth of them made it hard to swallow the dry lump in her throat. An involuntary act, she ducked her head into her lap, feeling her cheeks scald horribly.

She was more a gorgeous sight than ever. Her cheeks were slightly sunburned from the day's work. Her eyes flickered funnily, the way a nervous mare did in the midst of an approaching storm. The bugs settled onto her head, glowing brightly against her molten hair. Not fire, he realized, but rose gold. Like his, whenever ichor roared in his ears. A horrible, beautiful color. He reached out to fondle a piece of it. "Looks like pins." And then they kissed, more of him coming to kiss her than the latter, but she accepted him. No complaints this time. It started as an innocent caress of the lips, then more pressure and his tongue snaked out to taste her bottom lip. He didn't care that he knocked over the pot, only that he held the back of her head firmly to him, nowhere to escape to. He put the other onto her upper arm and she pulled away.

"No," she said, unnaturally quiet. "Not this time." They were staring into each other eyes, and Apollo resisted to urge to sniff. It didn't matter. He was a patient god. And, the longer they sat there, staring at the fireflies, touching and not speaking, the more he realized that this was a good place to be content.

 ***Hello there loves, Hope you enjoyed this chapter, though it was taking a little bit to come out. Now that summer's here, I'll definitely try to update more. In a matter of speaking, I've been leveling out the possibilities for this book, and I think that maybe in a few chapters, it will be coming to an end. I know, it's sad, but you know, all things must end, and I'm eager to start up on other books. Specifically one that I have most recently published, _Rage_. The book, if you haven't heard, is only the start of a trio series of books concerning specially picked Greek gods and their fateful meetings with the people who need it the most. The runner up, _Rage_ , starts off with my main man Dionysus. I have a good feeling about that one, though obviously I must warn you that the book is full of angst, smut, gore, and a lot of torture, which may or may not be very gross. So in a lot of ways it will be even more mature than this one, maturity aside, if you're interested then please check it out and tell me how you feel! **

**Also, I want to call out a particular reader DjoDjoCute, who has constantly commented on this book to give me feedback! I do get a little self-conscious about my work, and I am still in the developing of finding my own writing style, but it really means a lot when you encourage me. So to DjoDjoCute, thank you very much for helping me write this book!**

 **Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and will continue to enjoy the remaining chapters left to come :)**


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